


empty beds and falling stars

by Julx3tte



Series: CF Verse (blue lions) [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Hearing Voices, Reunion Fic, blue lions alternative - first half is black eagles, except make it hurt, no pegasuses were harmed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25323214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/pseuds/Julx3tte
Summary: CF!Sylvain Defects on the eve of the 5 year reunion at Garreg Mach.blame sunni & my 2008 moodthank you SO much for the beta @paperpenpal and @livmoores !!!!
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Series: CF Verse (blue lions) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816771
Comments: 15
Kudos: 23





	empty beds and falling stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunnilee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/gifts).



>   
> 
> 
> i knew this fic was done when i was 69 words under 2500, started writing, and finished 69 words over.
> 
> join the sylvgrid discord - https://discord.gg/QD4BPkF

If he were being honest, Sylvain would have said he was tired of the endless war. Five years of stalemate, holed up just far enough away from Fhirdiad that he never had to face his former classmates, and watching Edelgard’s war machine storm through the continent was too much. War was something she allowed. For someone so dedicated to ruling a continent, there was a remarkably little amount of peace to her plans.

But the worst of the things Edelgard allowed - worse than the death, the burning of wheat fields, the impaling of fathers - was the torture of prisoners. 

Even the boldest of them, Caspar, maybe, or Ferdinand, stood frozen to the cruelties. Prisoners brought in from the battlefield, survivors from towns they razed, and soldiers with minor enough injuries to survive were taken away and the rest of the Black Eagles watched and said nothing did nothing.

The rest turned their heads. Lysithea refused to leave her tent save for battles, and Bernadetta and Petra sat with an icy discomfort during war councils, knowing the fate of those they conquered. 

Sylvain had reasoned with himself enough times: it was the cost of things, the price he paid for joining Edelgard, who courted his strength - courted the _Lance of Ruin_ \- shortly after he’d inherited it. It was the cost of his choices, to leave, to say nothing when Hubert warped them all away and to watch Dimitri’s snarl towards Edelgard and his betrayal.

But the man was dead and reunion was impossible, and it was far better to sit as a general of Adrestria than risk his head dissenting. Edelgard tolerated no defectors. She’d had traitors, even those who did nothing but whisper the wrong way, executed on the spot, much to Hubert’s amusement. Sylvain valued his own head too much to do more than look away, and maybe after the war ended he’d return to Gautier and guard the border of Sreng for the rest of his life. 

It was useless, at least, it had been for five years. But this month, the war had changed. Byleth returned to the world, at least if the rumors of the Sword of the Creator’s blade cutting its way through the abandoned Garreg Mach were to be believed, and for the first time Sylvain wondered if Dimitri was truly dead.

Sylvain would never have called himself a coward. No, others had - Felix had called him as much at the tomb, and Ingrid had coldly asked him not to waste his breath explaining. He didn’t bother. But he dreamt of them, of Annette and Mercedes falling in battle together, of dying by Felix’s sword, then by Ingrid’s hand, of Dedue taking a fatal hit for Dimitri only for a meteor to crack the air around them. 

He woke up with a sweat each time, dreams plaguing the whole week they heard the news that Garreg Mach had flown the banner of Seiros. 

Tonight, Sylvain knew sleep would be tough to come by. Edelgard’s generals had been recalled and together marched east towards the monastery. A scouting force of Seiros knights had found them and been quelled, and shut his eyes and cupped his hands around his ears to find rest before the night began. 

He had no such luck. Just as he’d gotten comfortable, with blankets wrapped around his feet and body and moonlight from the flap that he left open at the top of his tent moved away from his eyes, he heard the sound of scuffling and grunting outside.

There was a feeling he got when he thought about nights like this one. His gut, the part that filled with bile and made him retch, filled with a sinking weight and the worst of his thoughts swarmed him. Blood retreated from his hands, leaving them ice cold, and he heard Ingrids’ low tone somewhere in the back of his head. 

_Coward_. 

It was always her voice. Ingrid, who was his voice of reason growing up, who scolded him frequently, who had him promise to stay close always, hadn’t left him alone in years. Tonight, she was needling him to leave his tent’s safety and play a part in the fate of whatever prisoner was brought before the empress. 

He almost didn’t - it was far easier to stay warm under the layers he’d bundled up around himself, and far safer. But Ingrid’s voice called on him to rise. _You’ll like what you’ll see_.

Sylvain only wore his tunic to sleep, but threw on his boots and gloves and pauldrons because he needed something to hide his fingernails from breaking skin and his posture to stay upright. He crawled through the entrance of his tent and walked the makeshift road that ran through the heart of camp.

He regretted it as soon as he made it to the clearing in front of the command tent. Two men held a prisoner by the arms and Hubert had a hand clenched around her jaw, and Sylvain was glad for the armor to keep him level as he saw the flash of blonde hair. _Miss me?_

 _It’s not Ingrid_ , he told himself. _She’s with the professor right now._ Still, the unshakable dread that she would be captured, taken to an interrogation tent for “information gathering,” and left on some barren hill was the worst of his nightmares. 

His part to play had always been aloof, distant. Too traumatized to scheme, too angry not to fight, too direct not to flirt with everything that breathed. _Too strong not to keep leashed._ It was how Edelgard saw him, and he preferred it that way.

Sylvain took a deep breath and strolled into sight of the group that gathered. 

It wasn’t Ingrid. The voice was too high pitched, hair too dark, armor wrong, height too tall, and a million other things that Sylvain pushed away in favor of sauntering forward until the empress herself raised an eyebrow.

“Ah,” she said, smirking. “What do you think, Sylvain?” Should we execute her here, or should I give her to Hubert and see if this one has some information for us?”

He looked coldly at the woman. She was an older knight, one that preferred death over capture, full of chivalry. If his reputation was as a womanizer, then he’d play it to his advantage. There was likely no escape for her now, but he’d do what he could and offer mercy.

“I’ve always had a thing for blondes,” he said, keeping his voice as sinister as he could muster. The knight glared daggers at him, but said nothing. “But I am tired tonight. Kill her - what information could she have scouting this far into our territory?”

Edelgard leered over him, then nodded.

“So be it.”

Sylvain blinked as her throat was cut, and walked back to his tent in silence. 

The presence of the knights of Sieros here was information enough, Sylvain realized. He knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight, so he found a small hill and sat at the top, allowing cold, crisp air to bite his lungs.

It confirmed at least the worst of Edelgard’s suspicions - Byleth was alive, and with her, the promise to reunite at Garreg Mach. Sylvain wondered what that meant for him.

He was there when they’d made the promise. No matter what happened, they’d meet together under the moon. Dimitri, if he was alive, certainly wouldn’t miss it.

But would he be welcome? He thought about the tomb again, of all of their faces when he turned and against them and held the Lance of Ruin between him and his friends. 

He thought about the knight he’d ordered killed and wondered what he would have done if it were Ingrid. Would he have given her a valiant death? Or taken over interrogations himself. Would have been able to spare her of that, and would she let him?

He wondered what the rest of them looked like. Half a decade was enough to make him look more like his father. His hair was finally kept, and his shoulders had grown out fitting his armor with ease. 

The more he thought, the louder Ingrid’s voice was. _Coward. Couldn’t kill me yourself so you killed my lookalike. What if it were me?_

Sylvain knew better than to engage. He did, once, asked her questions and found no answers. The real Ingrid was safe in Galatea or at Garreg Mach and the one he imagined would offer nothing but to twist his words and accuse him.

Frustrated, Sylvain tilted his head back and took a deep breath. Thinking was getting him nowhere, and only one of the thoughts that ran through his head made any sense.

_Keep your promises._

* * *

The road to Garreg Mach was winding and treacherous. Twice, Sylvain’s horse turned a corner to find nothing and he’d had seconds to come to a stop. A few times the road was blocked and he had to traverse slowly.

Edelgard’s Generals were rarely asked questions, so to find him taking his steed for a ride was no surprise to the squires in charge of the stables. Sylvain had always been prone to insomnia.

But now, hours later, he wondered if one of them would be sent after him. It had been long enough to be suspicious, and he knew at least Dorothea kept tabs on them all. 

Sylvain kept a hand on his lance as he rode. He was close, more than three quarters of the way there, and he could see the ruins of the monastery walls on the road ahead. 

_Are you coming for me?_ Ingrid’s voice ran through his head. _What if you don’t like what you find?_

He ignored it. For the first time in a long time, his heart held fear. The Black Eagles camp was dangerous, but it never made him afraid. The worst punishment there was death or exile, and he’d seen and been through enough of both that it didn’t matter. Battle was always a risk, but to be afraid in battle was to die.

But keep his promises to friends he’d betrayed - Sylvain wondered briefly if he should turn back, report to the others that he was simply scouting ahead, and wait for the next day’s campaign to begin anew.

Before he could truly consider it, an arrow shot from his side. Sylvain quickly ducked, but another and another came flying from ahead of him. Sylvian charged through the road, bringing his lance up to defend himself.

He’d hoped the corner ahead of him would give him cover, but as he turned it, a booming crack brought his horse to a crash. It’s neck was turned sickly. Sylvain looked up long enough to see a menacing figure laughing before he felt himself get into the ground.

“The prodigal returns,” the voice said, low and cracking and familiar. “Let’s see if it dies like it’s brother.”

Sylvain saw the man’s arms raise above him a moment before he felt a jagged, searing pain explode through his legs. He screamed only to be met with more laughter. Then it happened again, this time to his arm. Each time he tried to bring up the spear to defend himself, a heavy boot stomped on his forearm.

It was funny, to meet the same fate he’d spared someone from earlier in the night. This way of killing - of bleeding someone slowly and savoring it - was more play than violence. He’d barely had a moment to react to the strength and brutality of the thuds against his armor.

The pain was blinding, and he could feel the impending loss of consciousness creeping slowly through his periphery. Sylvain thought of Ingrid’s voice one more time. _Stop. Stop_.

Stop what? He finally listened, and this is where it brought him. To fall on the steps of the monastery hours before keeping his final promise to the friends he’d turned traitor to, just after deserting those that had taken him in. A double traitor, a double coward. It was a worthy way to fall.

But the voice was louder still.

“ _Dimitri, STOP!_ ”

Dimitri? Dimitri was dead, and Ingrid had been whispering to him all night to march to his own. Why would she tell him to stop now?

But a blinding light burned his eyes despite them being shut, and suddenly the pressure against his chest abated. He heard the sounds of scuffling and vile laughter and knees on the ground next to him, and Sylvain blinked his eyes open slowly. 

Ingrid’s face was softer than he remembered. Worry lines had set between her eyes, and he could tell that she was fighting to keep control of herself as her face snapped from him to… Dimitri. 

His face was almost unrecognizable. It was snarled and twisted, and one of his eyes was hidden behind an eyepatch. Long, ragged hair fell around where his crown used to lay. 

He’d been dead for five years and was now alive - Felix and Ashe, held him back, struggling to even keep his arms from shaking. There were footsteps further back behind them, and Ingrid’s hurried wave confirmed their identity. A warm glow bathed his leg and arm and the pain dissipated, too.

Dimitri offered a scornful frown upon their arrival. “The professor can decide what to do with you,” he said, shaking off Felix and Ashe and walking back up the path towards the monastery.

Next to him, Ingrid let the breath she’d been holding go, taking in gulps of air in quick succession. He felt her hands, colder than his, slide into his palm with a tight grip, enough to know that she was doing her best to stop them from shaking. 

She wasn’t wearing armor, which was the first thing he noticed. She must have ran as soon as the alarm had raised - _Luin_ lay planted on the ground behind her. Was she planning to take Dimitri alone like this? The second thing was that Ingrid had cut her hair. Earlier in the night he tried to place Ingrid in the center of Edelgard’s camp, wondering if she’d have said viler things than the knight instead. Seems he was wrong about her appearance and her response to him - Ingrid said nothing, and her hair was neatly clipped back, the long, trailing braid gone. 

Sylvain squeezed her hand back while her gaze passed over him wordlessly. He expected them to be distant or dithering, but was surprised to find her green orbs burning with indignation. Was she _angry_ at Dimitri? Or him. 

_Save your breath_. They were the last words she’d said to him, barely a whisper, barely audible above Dimitri’s cruel laughter echoing through the halls. He’d heard them over and over again, not sure if he was repeating them to himself or the taunting voice that took Ingrid’s low alto reminding him of his failures. 

But Ingrid offered him a thin smile and he understood.

“You’re home,” she whispered, shutting her eyes to stem the mist beginning to form.

It was enough of a concession of his presence as he would get. Sylvain let his head fall back into the dirt. He met her eyes last; Felix, still indomitable, just nodded, and the others offered smiles. When Ingrid’s finger traced the line of his cheek with the barest touch, Sylvain closed his eyes, and for the first time in five years, Sylvain fell asleep easily under the starlight.

**Author's Note:**

> 4 soft fics in the queue i promise


End file.
